


Faith

by Evandar



Category: Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Coffee, F/F, Kissing, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misses Clause Challenge, Paranoid Mal, Post-Book(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2803841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Polly’s not a very nice girl any more. Especially when it comes to sabotaging her lads. Even more so when it comes to sabotaging Mal</i> - Some of the damage Strappi caused has lingered. It's a good thing that Polly believes both in Mal and in preparation; the hard part is getting Mal to believe in herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fjalamoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fjalamoth/gifts).



> I loved your prompts so much! I had a really tough time choosing between them, but this is h/c with vulnerable!Mal really stuck in my mind and I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy the result!

“But what if it happens again?”

Polly looks up from the supply box. It’s filled with bags of coffee beans specially imported from Klatch – expensive, but Mal is a vampire, and wealth is as much of a species trait as fangs and pale skin – and there’s a stamp on the side that lets her know that it came through the official channels. Once upon a time, not so long ago, the Borogravian military would never have imported such a thing for a mere _Corporal_ , but that was before…everything. And vampires are even harder to argue with when they’re national heroes.

Someone should tell Mal that, she thinks. It should probably be her, but she’s never been overly good with words when it comes to Mal. Things stick in her throat or come out wrong. But still, she has to try.

“It won’t,” she says, and pats the box, reminding Mal that – this time – they’re extremely well supplied before heading off into the wild. “Look, you knew this was probably going to happen when you signed up again, and you still did it anyway. You _prepared_ for it. You’ve got your necklace, haven’t you?”

A necklace strung with coffee bean beads. Polly’s seen it a couple of times, brief glimpses whenever Mal leaves her collar open, and it reminds her a little bit of the rosaries the gypsies that used to pass through Munz wore. She knows better than to say that out loud, though. While vampires as a whole – she’s heard – like to have religious imagery around in order to be sporting, she doubts it would make for a comfortable comparison.

Mal’s only response is a grunt. Her hands flutter through the air as words fail her, and it’s hard to remember why someone who frets so much should be dangerous. Even if that someone once turned to her with hands outstretched and a snarling mouth full of razor sharp fangs. Vampires are vampires, yes, but Mal is Mal, and she trusts Mal to have a grip on the vampire.

Isn’t that the point of being a Black Ribboner anyway?

She slides her finger under the label of one of the bags, opens it, pops a single bean into her mouth; lets her fingers trail over the edge of the box before she steps away from it, towards Mal, and reaches up with that same hand to stroke the soft hair at Mal’s temple. The bean crunches between her teeth and she knows that, over the usual smells of human and prey, she smells strongly enough of coffee now to be truly tempting. She can see it in Mal’s eyes; in the way that her pupils dilate and her lips part. But there’s nothing like the loss of control there was in the woods when Strappi had tried to ruin their lives. Polly smiles her very best smile, tries not to look _too_ smug, and kisses her.

Mal’s lips are cold, but they’re also soft, and she makes a small noise in her throat as Polly presses herself closer and opens her mouth to let Mal taste her – taste the coffee on her tongue. 

Kissing Mal is like nothing else. There’s a scrape of fangs against her lip that sends a shiver down her spine and makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, but there’s no blood drawn or feral growling. It’s surprisingly gentle; Mal’s hands do rise to her waist and hold her there, impossibly strong, but there’s no threat in them and when Polly does pull away, Mal releases her without a struggle.

“See,” she says, leaving Mal blinking in her wake. 

Mal licks her lips. “That was stupid,” she says. “I could have really-“

“Hurt me,” Polly finishes. “I know. That’s the point. You could have, but you didn’t, because – and you know this fine well – you’ve got it under control.”

“But what if-“

If. If if _if_. Polly was getting sick of the word ‘if’. It had appeared far too many times since their deployment orders had been sent out. Strappi had – knowingly or not – caused an awful lot of damage that couldn’t always be seen. In towns and barracks, it was hard not to find coffee these days; on the front lines, they had to be prepared. They _would_ be prepared.

“Would it make you feel better if I carried some?” she asks. “A bag of it in my shako, or something. Maybe a necklace of beans.”

“Wrapping coffee around your _neck_ might cause other problems,” Mal replies, her voice faint, and the expression on her face not dissuading Polly in the slightest.

“It was just a thought,” she says. “Just in case.” She’s already making plans for that bag she’s already opened. She’s got some strong thread and a needle somewhere in her kit; it’s supposed to be for darning, but improvisation’s always been an important ability for a soldier. Very important. Yes. 

Besides, if there’s another political bastard out there, planning on trying to make trouble…well. Battlefields are confusing places. Very dangerous. Very _pointy_. Anything could happen and, well, Polly’s not a very nice girl any more. Especially when it comes to sabotaging her lads. Even more so when it comes to sabotaging Mal. She’s had more than enough of _that_.

She slides her fingers down Mal’s cool cheek, down her neck to the collar of her uniform, and follows a raised line of beans through the material, down to Mal’s clavicle and then down a bit more. Mal’s heart doesn’t leap at her touch – there’s no heartbeat under her hand at all – but she does sigh a bit and the tension leaves her shoulders and that’s the next best thing.

“I believe in you,” she says, thinking of gypsy rosaries and all the ways in which, despite all odds, Mal happened to be very human. “I also believe in being prepared, which in this case, we are. So stop worrying.”

Mal’s lips twitch. “Is that an order, Sarge?”

“Yes, Corporal. It is.”


End file.
